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other Roog said to the lingering Roog at the fence.
    They walked up the path.
    “Well, except for these little places around the Guardians, this area is well cleared,” the biggest Roog said. “I’ll be glad when this particular Guardian is done. He certainly causes us a lot of trouble.”
    “Don’t be impatient,” one of the Roogs said. He grinned. “Our truck is full enough as it is. Let’s leave something for next week.”
    All the Roogs laughed.
    They went on up the path, carrying the offering in the dirty, sagging blanket.

The Little Movement
    The man was sitting on the sidewalk, holding the box shut with his hands. Impatiently the lid of the box moved, straining up against his fingers.
    “All right,” the man murmured. Sweat rolled down his face, damp, heavy sweat. He opened the box slowly, holding his fingers over the opening. From inside a metallic drumming came, a low insistent vibration, rising frantically as the sunlight filtered into the box.
    A small head appeared, round and shiny, and then another. More heads jerked into view, peering, craning to see. “I’m first,” one head shrilled. There was a momentary squabble, then quick agreement.
    The man sitting on the sidewalk lifted out the little metal figure with trembling hands. He put it down on the sidewalk and began to wind it awkwardly, thick-fingered. It was a brightly painted soldier with helmet and gun, standing at attention. As the man turned the key the little soldier’s arms went up and down. It struggled eagerly.
    Along the sidewalk two women were coming, talking together. They glanced down curiously at the man sitting on the sidewalk, at the box and the shiny figure in the man’s hands.
    “Fifty cents,” the man muttered. “Get your child something to—”
    “Wait!” a faint metallic voice came. “Not them!”
    The man broke off abruptly. The two women looked at each other and then at the man and the little metal figure. They went hurriedly on.
    The little soldier gazed up and down the street, at the cars, the shoppers. Suddenly it trembled, rasping in a low, eager voice.
    The man swallowed. “Not the kid,” he said thickly. He tried to hold onto the figure, but metal fingers dug quickly into his hand. He gasped.
    “Tell them to stop!” the figure shrilled. “Make them stop!” The metal figure pulled away and clicked across the sidewalk, its legs still and rigid.
    The boy and his father slowed to a stop, looking down at it with interest. The sitting man smiled feebly; he watched the figure approach them, turning from side to side, its arms going up and down.
    “Get something for your boy. An exciting playmate. Keep him company.”
    The father grinned, watching the figure coming up to his shoe. The little soldier bumped into the shoe. It wheezed and clicked. It stopped moving.
    “Wind it up!” the boy cried.
    His father picked up the figure. “How much?”
    “Fifty cents.” The salesman rose unsteadily, clutching the box against him. “Keep him company. Amuse him.”
    The father turned the figure over. “You sure you want it, Bobby?”
    “Sure! Wind it up!” Bobby reached for the little soldier. “Make it go!”
    “I’ll buy it,” the father said. He reached into his pocket and handed the man a dollar bill.
    Clumsily, staring away, the salesman made change.
     
    The situation was excellent.
    The little figure lay quietly, thinking everything over. All circumstances had conspired to bring about optimum solution. The Child might not have wanted to stop, or the Adult might not have had any money. Many things might have gone wrong; it was awful even to think about them. But everything had been perfect.
    The little figure gazed up in pleasure, where it lay in the back of the car. It had correctly interpreted certain signs: the Adults were in control, and so the Adults had money. They had power, but their power made it difficult to get to them. Their power, and their size. With the Children it was different. They